


Linger

by Matryyoshka



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matryyoshka/pseuds/Matryyoshka
Summary: Sansa and Margaery have one thing in common: they've both bearded for Renly Baratheon. When Margaery impulsively answers a phone call, neither of them expects to begin falling in love with each other from hundreds of miles away.
Relationships: Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell - minor, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 37
Kudos: 283





	1. Chapter 1

It starts like this.

Margaery leans against a centuries-old tapestry, champagne flute in hand. Horn Hill is the best-preserved castle in the Reach next to Highgarden, and the Tarlys have evidently not seen fit to redecorate since the time of Aenys I. _With the exception of Lord Randyll's... unfortunate mid-life foray into taxidermy._ There are no less than fourteen disembodied animal heads in the old Great Hall alone, and a boar that comes up to Margaery's waist has pride of place near the bar. Lady Melessa, ever practical, is using it as a table for canapes. 

_How long before I can find Renly and Loras in whatever closet they've absconded to and make a graceful retreat?_

"Margaery! How lovely to see you!"

_Godsdammit._

Margaery turns to Lord Randyll with her most charming smile. "And you, Lord Randyll. How was the hunt? A suitable start to the season?"

"A most pleasing hunt indeed! I'm sorry to say that your Renly didn't distinguish himself, but your brother! Now _he_ could be a country lord."

"Perhaps when his tennis career is over, he'll be a more permanent fixture in your hunting lodge," Margaery says. _Poor Renly._ That he had even gone along on the Tarlys' annual autumn hunting party is a testament to his commitment to maintaining the appearance of a sort of masculinity. Renly can't stand the sight of blood. 

Margaery looks over Lord Randyll's shoulder and spots Sam sidling towards the exit. "You'll have to excuse me, Lord Randyll - I've been trying to catch up with your son all day."

Lord Randyll looks pleased rather than put out when she shoves her empty glass into his free hand. _Probably hoping that the two of us will get back together._

She catches up with Sam in the corridor and punches him in the shoulder. "Were you just going to leave me stranded there with your dad?"

Sam has the grace to look guilty. "I saw my chance for escape and I took it. He's been watching me like a hawk all day, waiting for his chance to berate me for... well, every life choice I've ever made. As usual." He leads them into a study, which is thankfully free of dead animals, and shuts the door behind them.

Margaery hops up onto the heavy oak desk while Sam rummages around in a cabinet, emerging with a dusty bottle of scotch. "He still hopes you and I will end up married," she says. "One of these days I'll scandalize him by telling him that you only dated me so I could make out with Alys Caswell behind the library without suspicion."

Sam takes a swig from the bottle and hands it to her. Margaery isn't a big fan of whiskey, but after spending all day pretending to be happily in love with Renly in front of a bunch of stuffy society wives, she'll take what she can get. 

"I would happily watch that happen. You know he wasn't even aware that marriage equality is a thing now? He really is up here pretending to be some kind of feudal lord with no connection to the real world. I would think he's getting senile if I didn't know that he's just a dick."

Margaery laughs. "How's med school? How's Gilly?" 

"Good and good," Sam says, smiling genuinely for the first time all day. "I thought to bring her and send my father to an early grave with my pleb girlfriend, but she has two exams this week and no time for, and I quote, 'people with too much money and not enough sense.'"

"I feel her. I need to get out of here and work on my thesis. I only came as a favour to Renly and Loras." A Masters of Social Work wasn't exactly what her parents had had in mind for Margaery, but after Willas had gone to veterinary school and Garlan had become a physiotherapist, they were used to their children settling into normal careers. 

"And how's -" Sam gestures broadly with the bottle, "- all _that_ going?"

Margaery sighs. "It's... going." The truth is, the going is hard. She had been quietly dating women for years before Renly, and had been more than ready to come out - but Loras had needed help, and she couldn't refuse her brother. "It's not like I really have time to date in grad school anyway."

"Mmm," Sam says. No one hums like Sam. The perfectly neutral on the surface but deeply judgmental underneath hum. 

"Oh, fuck you," Margaery says, reaching for the bottle. 

A phone buzzes in her purse. She pulls it out, only to gape at the screen. 

_Incoming Call: Sansa Stark_

Sam rests his head on her shoulder. " _Wow._ I thought you said you weren't dating anyone?"

"I'm not," Margaery murmurs. "This is Renly's phone, and that's his ex." 

Margaery knows all about Sansa Stark, Renly's long-term not-a-girlfriend before Margaery. They'd studied at the Vale together before Renly had moved to Oldtown for law school and for Loras. Margaery knows that Sansa is from the North (she's from that Stark family - _the_ Stark family), that she's finishing up her undergrad, that she and Renly remain best friends, and that they talk almost every day. But she's never actually seen the woman. 

And just - wow. 

Vibrant red hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones. A mischievous smile. Margaery never thought she had a type, but now she knows she does. This. This woman is her type.

She blames the scotch, later. 

Margaery swipes to answer. "Hello?" Sam is staring a her. He mouths, _what are you doing?_

"Hello? I'm calling for Renly?"

The voice that goes with the face is even better. Lower than Margaery expected, and with that delicious Northern accent.

"He's... indisposed at the moment, sorry. This is Margaery. I can try to find him if it's an emergency?"

_That's right, Margaery. Play it off like you answered out of concern, and not because six months of grad school and celibacy have made you thirsty._

"Ah, the infamous Margaery," Sansa drawls. "I can't believe you have the gall, you homewrecking hussy." The chuckle that follows this is throaty in a way that makes Margaery swallow before she can join in the laughter. "There's no emergency. I forgot he was busy today - is he still out with that awful hunting party?"

"No, he's found a discreet place to get cozy with my brother."

"As long as they're not in my bedroom again," mutters Sam darkly. Margaery flaps her hand at him. 

"Sorry, is there someone else there?" 

"Just my friend Sam, who has been privy to my brother's sexuality since we were children and Loras insisted on putting him in drag. We're in hiding together."

Sansa laughs, and Margaery thinks she'd do just about anything to make Sansa laugh all the time, every day. 

"I've been there - hiding at a function, I mean, not in drag, although you _do_ have me intrigued. Well, get him to call me back when he's done his little tryst. It was nice to speak to you, Margaery, even if you _are_ the other woman."

Margaery stares at the phone for a full minute after hanging up, then reaches wordlessly for the scotch. Sam puts a consoling hand on her shoulder. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Margaery waits two weeks to ask Renly about Sansa. Two weeks in which she finds, to her frustration, if not to her surprise, that the Stark girl has no social media, no web presence, and is in almost no press photos of her father. The only one Margaery can find is from when Sansa is a small child, standing shyly beside her brothers as her father is inaugurated as Warden of the North, having run successfully after his brother's death.

They're on their way home from campus when Margaery broaches the subject. They're driving along the Honeywine, its name never more apt than in late autumn when the waning sun turns the water liquid gold. They pass the Quill and Tankard, on its island in the middle of the river, but despite it being Friday they exchange a mournful look and keep going. Margaery has research to do, and law school seems to be draining Renly's life force bit by bit.

"So - Sansa Stark. I must admit I'm curious. She didn't mind being your beard for three years when she could have been dating anyone she wanted in university?"

Renly glances at her, laughing. "She's at university in the _Vale._ The dating pool mostly consists of rich little lordlings who want to hitch their wagons to her father's horse. Sansa's ambitious. She wants to be a fashion designer, not some asshole's trophy wife. So fake-dating worked for both of us. It meant she didn't have to spend half of every day beating men off with a stick, and we both had someone to take to society functions we couldn't get out of. Like you and me."

_Right. Like you and me,_ Margaery thinks, a bit miserably. 

"Fashion design is an interesting choice," she comments instead.

"Sansa's been making her own clothes since she was a kid," Renly says proudly. "She's amazing. You should follow her on her Instagram."

"She has an Insta?" Margaery says, trying to be casual, as though she hadn't spend days looking for that very thing.

"Yeah - but it's under Alayne Stone. She wants to succeed on her own merits, not because of her name."

Margaery doesn't get any research done that night. She spends it poring over "Alayne Stone's" Instagram. There aren't any pictures of Sansa, other than sometimes delicate hands pulling fabric taut to show the stitching, but seeing Sansa's work is better than any thirst-trap photo. ( _Well. I wouldn't mind one of those either_ ). There is a leather dress that looks like armour; one made entirely of raven feathers, commissioned by the famous drag queen Satin Flowers; a blue one with elaborate knotwork roses around the collar that makes Margaery smile. Every single outfit has such a strong point of view. What strikes Margaery the most is how they range from extremely feminine to just this side of masculine, but all have such an underlying sense of depth and strength. Sansa's work is making Margaery see clothes in a way she never has before, and she thinks about it for days. 

She's still thinking about it when she turns up for her shift at the LGBTQ youth shelter she volunteers at. It's in the old septry, which Margaery considers wonderfully ironic given the Faith's track record. The abundance of old sleeping cells, large mess hall, and inner courtyard have made it uniquely suitable for its new purpose. As with many old structures in the city, there's still a relief of House Hightower's sigil on the facade, a testament to the rich patron who had commissioned the building long ago. Margaery idly snaps a photo of it - _"Not sure old Lord Manfred would have approved of what this building has become, but I definitely do. Heading off to fight the good fight."_ She finishes the caption with a rainbow emoji.

Most of the younger kids are playing in the yard when she arrives, pushing each other into piles of leaves and screaming with laughter. They're not quite teenagers, and so not quite too cool for such things. The older ones are in the common room, and greet her from where they're busy playing video games, or reading, or working on schoolwork. Margaery's occupied with phone calls and paperwork today, but promises to return when she's done to play Mario Kart.

Sam is in the office, speaking to Alleras about the upcoming first aid training he's coming to do with the older teens. 

"Thanks again for this, Sam," Alleras says. "Having their certification will make it that much easier for them to find summer jobs."

Margaery leans into Sam's side and grins. "How was your trip home to Dorne, Ally?"

Alleras grabs a stack of folders and hands them to Margaery. "It was good, actually. My uncle only deadnamed me twice, and I think he was actually apologetic. Either that or he was just afraid of the dressing down Arianne was ready to give him."

"Good," Margaery says. "And what's all this?"

"The usual stuff, mostly," Alleras says, running a hand over his tight curls. "But Armen wants to apply for emancipation. This back and forth is destroying him."

"Of course," Margaery says, flipping through the application that Alleras has already printed off. "Renly can help, too. I'll get him to go through it this week."

"Speaking of Renly, any more communication with _Sansa?_ " Sam asks. Margaery pokes him in his generous stomach. 

"Sansa?" Alleras grins widely, dying for the gossip. "Is Margaery Tyrell finally back on the market?"

Margaery rolls her eyes. "No. Margaery Tyrell happened to answer the phone when Renly's ex-beard called." She slumps against the desk, defeated. "And then Margaery Tyrell went down an Instagram rabbit hole, and developed a highly unfortunate crush."

"Ooh you found her Insta?" Sam has her phone out of her hand before she can protest. "Is this it? Alayne Stone?"

"What does she look like?" Alleras has climbed over the desk and is looking eagerly over Sam's shoulder.

"There aren't actually any photos of her on there," Margaery fumbles. "Just her work. Have a look - this is my most recent favourite. She made this tux for her sister's graduation." Margaery scrolls down, showing them other ones she likes, like the dress made of playing cards and the kaftan that looks like a tapestry. She's been talking for five minutes before she notices Sam and Alleras giving each other wide-eyed looks over her head.

"Oh, Marge," Alleras says, rubbing her back comfortingly.

"What? It's nothing. Honestly. She's just - very pretty, and funny, and I really admire her work. I don't even know her. And I'm busy with school, and being Renly's beard, and she's - I mean, she's not even here. Her work is just giving me some very cool perspective. From very far away."

_Very, very far away._

* * *

Margaery wakes up on Renly's birthday to a message from her cousin Megga lamenting the snow in White Harbour, where she's doing her internship. It makes her think of the North, of Sansa Stark, and she lets her head fall back against her headboard with a thunk. She's been so busy with school this past week that she's almost - _almost_ \- been able to keep the other woman - _whom you don't even actually know, don't forget, Marge_ \- out of her thoughts. 

_It's almost the holidays. You'll go home to Highgarden, ring in the new year by getting spectacularly drunk, and start fresh without pathetically pining over your boyfriend's ex._

Margaery swings her legs out of bed, ignoring the pang in her chest. She's always been proudly independent and self-sufficient, has never needed a relationship. It's why Loras and Renly had felt comfortable proposing their arrangement in the first place. But the longer Margaery goes not being _able_ to have one, the more something suspiciously like loneliness begins to gnaw at her. Especially since becoming aware of someone she'd date in a heartbeat.

_Sansa Stark is probably straight anyway_ , she thinks. It should make her feel better, but it doesn't.

She throws open her curtains and lets the sunlight flood in, breathing in deeply the scent of the lavender in her window box. She heads down spiral wrought iron stairs to the kitchen. Renly is already there, pouring a coffee and talking on the phone. 

"Gods. And how is the press dealing with it? ... that well, huh? Well, tell your brother and Theon good luck. For the record, I _always_ knew." Renly starts cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. "And what about you, Sans? Tell me you're at least going out _sometimes_... no, Harry doesn't count." Margaery walks up beside Renly and cracks two more eggs into the bowl, giving him a winning smile. "Alright, well, I'll give you a call later. _Apparently_ I'm making breakfast for two, now."

Renly nudges Margaery playfully and pours her a coffee of her own. "Sansa says hi." Margaery smiles before she can school her expression. Renly gives her a calculating look, which she ignores in favour of searching in the fridge for cream. 

"What was all that about?" She asks. Renly shakes his head incredulously. 

"Sansa's brother Robb - the one who's a Winterfell city councilor - came out as bisexual yesterday. And publicly announced his engagement to his childhood best friend Theon Greyjoy."

Margaery's eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "Oh wow. And how's that being received, up there in the wild North?" The North, although progressive in other ways, had been the slowest to accept marriage equality.

"Hard to say. It's impossible to overstate how beloved the Starks are up there. I mean, even the advent of democracy wasn't enough to interrupt them as a ruling dynasty. But their culture of toxic masculinity is really something else."

Renly puts the eggs on and they stand in silence for a bit. "Oh!" Margaery says. " _Gods._ Happy birthday, Ren. I should be the one making breakfast."

"No thanks. I'd rather this birthday not be my last."

Margaery sticks her tongue out at him. "Still on for dinner at the Thieves' Market?"

Renly looks down at the pan. "I don't know. Loras can't make it. He got roped into some charity event with Nymeria Sand." Margaery's face falls. Nymeria is the woman that Loras brings to events when he needs to look like a man who's attracted to the fairer sex. _Westeros is apparently not ready for gay_ or _lesbian tennis players._ So Renly will be spending his birthday wishing that his boyfriend wasn't out on a date with someone else.

Margaery puts an arm around his shoulders. Renly gives her a watery smile and loads up the plates. Margaery notices a package on the table as they sit down.

"My gift from Sansa," Renly explains, pulling it towards himself. Margaery stares, trying her absolute best not to be a creep. The package is addressed in precise block letters, but Renly's name is in loopy cursive. _Sansa Stark writes in green ink. How whimsical._

Renly opens it carefully, taking out a bundle wrapped in several layers of tissue paper. He shakes it out.

It's a beautiful royal blue pea coat with golden floral embroidery up the sleeves and along the collar. Margaery gasps as Renly holds it up admiringly, an almost painful look of want on his face. It's far more flamboyant than anything he allows himself to wear right now. Margaery picks up the note that came tumbling out of it.

_Happy birthday, Ren. Remember that now is not forever._

Margaery hands Renly the note and watches his face soften. She wonders at the power of a woman whose birthday gift is hope.

* * *

The new year brings rain with it, and Oldtown settles into its short season of chill and dreariness. Margaery spends her days on campus and in coffee shops doing schoolwork, drinking too many chai lattes, and checking Instagram. Sansa Stark posts a stunning progress photo of a green and gold gown, and Margaery allows herself to wonder for a fleeting moment if the other woman thinks of her sometimes, too.

_Don't be ridiculous. She's never met you. She's spoken with you on the phone for a total of three minutes. She probably doesn't even realize she's using Tyrell colours._

Nonetheless, Margaery wonders. After all, Alayne Stone _had_ promptly followed her back.

Margaery drains the last of her latte and decides that enough is enough for one day. She gathers her things and heads out the door. A woman stops her to compliment her outfit.

She's been wearing the coat.

Renly had held it out to her on her way out of the house one day. Margaery understands. He can't wear it, but wants to see it worn. It's a reminder to them both. _Now is not forever._ One day Renly will go to events on Loras's arm. One day Margaery won't wake up to an empty bed. She tries not to make too much of the fact that she's wearing something that Sansa had in her hands.

Margaery trudges past the Sailor's Sept, taking the long way home. She doesn't relish trying to relax among Renly and Loras's tense silences and clipped conversations. This arrangement is weighing on all of them, and Margaery feels like they're heading toward a breaking point.

When she gets home, Renly is alone. _Right. Loras's flight to King's Landing left today._ Her friend is sprawled on the couch with a beer, staring at nothing in particular. Margaery shoves his legs to the side and sits down heavily beside him. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and then something in Margaery snaps.

"Alright, this is pathetic. What did you do in the Vale when you missed Loras? Before law school began its hold on your soul." 

Renly tilts his head, considering. "Sansa and I would sit on the roof of the gondola station getting drunk and taking in the view of the mountains while ranting about our problems, mostly. Screaming into the abyss is surprisingly cathartic."

"Perfect, I can work with that. Get up." Margaery grabs Renly's arms and hauls him to his feet and out the door. 

Margaery lets her feet guide her through the narrow alleys from their house in the old guildhalls to Ragpicker's Wynd, where they stop in at a convenience store for an abundance of cheap liquor and snacks. Renly reaches into the back of a fridge and withdraws a six pack of Bear Island Ale. 

"I can't believe they have this here. You haven't lived until you've seen Sansa the delicate seamstress five bottles into a case of this and shaking her fist at the Giant's Lance." He puts it in the basket and Margaery grins at him. 

"A frequent occurance then?"

"Gods, no," Renly laughs. "In fact, other than her siblings, I'm probably the only one ever to have the honour of experiencing it. You want to be careful to cut her off before she gets _too_ soused, though, or you'll be subjected to a rambling lecture about the cuts of mid-century Braavosi jackets or something."

Margaery smiles, and sneaks a glance at her phone while Renly pays. Alayne Stone has posted a photo of a gorgeous summerweight blouse. _I wonder what Sansa's doing right now. Who does she ramble to without Renly there?_

_I'd listen to her ramble._

Margaery and Renly step out into the night. The clouds give the city a hazy feeling, the mist off the river diffusing the light and settling over them like a cloak. They can hear sounds of revelry from the Thieves' Market and the pubs along the Honeywine. Margaery chooses an old footbridge not far from the Quill and Tankard and clambers onto the broad ledge. She pops the tab on a tallboy of Fossoway's Cider and stares out across the water. 

"It was easier, there, somehow," Renly says when she's almost polished off the can. "When Loras was so far away and we couldn't see each other all the time even if we wanted to. But now we live together, and I miss him more than I did when I was studying on top of a literal mountain."

Margaery nods. _Loras is away so much. And being in the closet on top of that..._ "It's hard. This whole thing is so hard."

"Being in the Vale was even sort of a good time. Sansa and I would show up to society parties we had to to go to and act like the perfect couple. _Overact,_ really. We were so isolated there, and so focused on our studies, it was fun in a way that it isn't anymore - no offense at all to you, of course," Renly says quickly, leaning over to give Margaery a light kiss on the cheek.

"None taken, darling," Margaery says, and it's true. She gets it. The Vale seems like a whole other world, the way Renly talks about it - a big difference from pretending to date Margaery when he can see Loras from across the room.

"It was a break from the pressure of being at a top tier university. And it felt like kind of a game, seeing how over the top we could be and have straight people _still_ buy it, just because we looked the part. Bearding for each other was like... being a parody of all the things we hated most."

Margaery almost drops her can into the river in shock.

"You bearded for _each other?_ "

Renly immediately looks guilty. "Fuck. I shouldn't have said that."

Margaery's heart is beating wildly. "Well, you've said it now. Spill the tea."

"Yeah - I mean, Sansa's a lesbian. But I wasn't lying earlier. She really did just want to focus on her work. The whole time we were in the Vale, she never met anyone sufficiently interesting to be worth the distraction from what she was really passionate about. Her words, not mine. She's romantically and sexually attracted to women, theoretically, but I never saw her so much as look twice at one the whole time we dated."

_This shouldn't change anything,_ Margaery thinks. _It's not like we're available to one another anyway. And it sure sounds like she doesn't want to be._

"She seems pretty amazing," Margaery says, hugging the coat around herself. "Enough to make me wish... that I didn't know anything about her at all. It would be easier."

They watch two men drag their friend out of the Quill and dunk his head in the river to sober him up. Laughter floats up to them along the water. Three teenagers on bikes speed across the bridge behind them, yelling to each other about their curfew. The bells from the Starry Sept peal for the last time until dawn.

"It's a weird feeling, isn't it?" Renly says after a while. 

"Mmm. What?" 

"Being so in the thick of things, here. But feeling so alone."

Margaery puts an arm around him. He leans into her, both of them grateful to have one another.

Even if they're both thinking about someone else.


	2. Chapter 2

The snow is coming down so hard outside the library that Sansa feels like it might seal her in there alive. _Entombed by snow, Sansa Stark died doing what she loved most: hiding in the library researching court fashions from the time of Aegon the Conqueror._ Or, alternatively: _Sansa Stark died as she lived: alone on a mountain with only her art for company._

Sansa shuts the manuscript she's been poring over and rests her chin in her hand. _Maybe Renly's around._ She checks her phone. It's only three o'clock in the Reach; he'll still be in lectures. She opens Instagram instead, a habit she's fallen into these past two weeks. She scrolls past Jeyne Poole's fancy brunch; her brother Robb digging his car out of three feet of snow (#justwinterfellthings); and a video of Arya doing weighted pull-ups. Finally Sansa comes to what, if she's being honest with herself (she's not), she's really been looking for: mtyrell has posted a photo of herself sitting on the sidewalk on a cobblestone bridge, the Hightower visible in the distance. The caption reads _"Drinking coffee on the curb in between classes - Citadel students, you know what I'm talking about."_

Sansa tells herself that she's just admiring Oldtown (the city is gorgeous, and Margaery is a good photographer) or that she's just admiring _Margaery_ (the woman is a smokeshow). But there's something else nagging at her, and she doesn't know how to express it yet, other than to say that she wants to _know what Margaery is talking about._

She heaves her books into her bag and shuts off the green lamp in her study cubicle. She pauses by the wide double doors that lead to the Crescent Chamber, and the gondola that will take her back to her dorm in the Gates of the Moon, and turns instead to the staircase to the Maiden's Tower. 

The Eyrie has been the home of the Vale's university for almost two hundred years, and most of it has been converted into lecture halls, libraries, and offices. The Maiden's Tower alone has been left untouched, a monument to the castle's past as the impregnable stronghold of the Arryns. Despite its rich history and beauty, most students avoid the narrow, winding staircase of old stone. _I don't know what's more likely,_ Arya had said on one visit, _that you'll slip and fall to your death or that your heart will give out halfway to the top._

But for those who are bold enough to make the trek, the old apartments make good studios and study spaces. Sansa opens the door to the topmost chamber. There's a heavy wooden table with her sewing machine on it taking up most of the space. The creaky old four-poster bed has several bolts of cloth draped across it, as well as an in-progress gown. Sansa moves further into the chamber and lights the gas stove for heat, before slipping out the double doors and onto the carved white stone balcony.

_So lovely._

The snow has slowed, and The Vale stretches out before her, the white fields and forests bathed in the red and gold of the sunset. It takes her breath away, as it always does. Alyssa's Tears glimmers blue and white, its motion frozen against the crags of the Giant's Lance. The mountains loom high above and around Sansa, and the towers of the Gates of the Moon below her look as small as children's toys. She feels suspended between them, outside of space and time and utterly alone.

After living in Winterfell, with the social pressures of being the daughter of the Warden of the North, the solitude of the Vale was everything Sansa had ever wanted. A place where she could focus on her art with no outside distractions. And after growing up with five siblings, having a place where she could be completely and totally alone seemed like a precious luxury.

And for a while, she had flourished. She'd had the space to simply _create,_ to master her craft and to fine-tune her perspective. Other than Renly, she'd more or less kept herself sequestered. 

And then Renly had left, and her isolation had become complete.

_Is it possible for your life to become so completely internal that you lose your grip on reality? How much time can one person spend inside their own head?_

Despite all the time she spends with herself and her sewing machine, her creative output has more or less dried up in the last couple months. _Am I stagnating? Do I just not have anything more to say?_

Sansa shivers and shakes the snow out of her hair. She goes back in and sits at her worktable, the coat she's been working on for Renly's birthday laid out in front of her, as bare as it's been for the past month. She sighs and takes out her phone again. _This is a poor habit to get into when I'm supposed to be in the zone._

The moment she opens the app, she's greeted by a gorgeous photo of the Honeywine, its water molten gold in the low light. There's a wrought iron cafe table in the foreground, out of focus, and a pressed flower in a notebook. It's one of Margaery's photos, of course, but for once presented without comment.

Sansa stares at it for a long time, considering. Then she selects some golden thread, and gets to work. 

* * *

The trees rush past Sansa as she cuts a line through the foliage. She emerges into a cleared area, and carves smoothly down the mountain before stopping at the top of a sharp descent. She knocks the snow off of one ski with the other as she peers down, planning her route.

There's almost no one on the mountain at this time. The public gondola doesn't open for half an hour yet, and most students are too overworked to get up and take advantage. So it's just Sansa, self-contained in her bundle of layers. There's a cruel wind trying to cut through any gaps, but Sansa is from Winterfell. She's layered for the gods.

The way makes itself clear to her, and Sansa takes off smoothly. It's so steep that her body is almost perpendicular to the mountain face. She's in perfect, perilous balance, and the fact that one mistake could send her tumbling down sets her nerves aflame in the best way. 

It's over much too soon. On level ground, all of Sansa's gnawing dissatisfaction returns. She used to feel that kind of excitement about lots of things, that sense of possibility and hyperfocus. But now there are precious few ways she can grasp it. 

She throws her skis in a locker and makes her way back to her dorm. Before she even realizes what she's doing, she's pulled out her phone. She shoves it back into her pocket. _This is why I'm losing focus. Spending all my time on social media is impeding my ability to do deep work._

But when she's in the Maiden's Tower, staring at the sketches she's supposed to be turning into a final project, she has to admit that maybe it's not Instagram's fault she's at a loss.

A photo of Margaery in front of a bustling outdoor marketplace greets her when she opens the app. Light reflects off of Margaery's aviators. The produce in her basket is a riot of purples and yellows and greens. _"Shopping for dinner to celebrate Armen landing his first job! Don't worry - I'm not the one cooking."_

_The idea of... community, colour, light..._ Sansa turns to a fresh page in her sketchbook and begins to draw a new concept. 

It happens again, the next week. Satin has commissioned another gown, and Sansa is drawing a blank. She walks round and round the trails encircling the Gates of the Moon, trying to find her illusive inspiration in the icicles dripping from the window sills, the scent of spruce needles crushed between her fingertips. Nothing.

In desperation, she pulls out her phone. Margaery has posted a photo of herself and her friend (Sam, Sansa knows, from following her for this long) out for lunch at a quiant little place with old-fashioned blue china. _"What a wonderful find on a day when I've been missing Grandmother (still alive, just at Highgarden). Find it just past the Hightower, north of the textile district."_ Sansa fashions a blue and white dress with a chest panel that can be ripped off to reveal two tea cups over the breasts. Satin loves it and declares it her best work yet.

_This is getting out of hand,_ Sansa thinks desperately as she sews the hem of a green and gold gown. Margaery had posted a photo of herself and her brother at their family estate in Highgarden, in front of a portrait of two Tyrell siblings from history. Their faux-serious expressions had made Sansa laugh, and the rich gown and tunic of the siblings in the painting had made her reach for her sketchbook. 

It's this desperation that sends her down from the Maiden's Tower in the middle of night with a bottle of hot pepper and honey vodka to sit on the roof of the gondola station. It's harder to get up there without Renly, but she manages, and lays on her back looking at the stars, letting snowflakes fall onto her eyelashes and into her mouth.

_I don't know what's colder,_ Renly had joked once, _the Vale or you. One day you're just going to turn to stone out here, Sans._

_Is that what's happening?_ Sansa thinks. _Am I turning to stone?_

She tugs her jacket closed against the cold and takes a gulp of vodka to warm herself. The snow glints in the fluorescent lights of the station, and Sansa can see the gondola cars stretching down the mountain on the cable, frozen mid-journey. Frost spiders along the corrugated metal of the roof, and Sansa idly scratches patterns in it. 

_Maybe I was turning to stone before. Now I'm not sure what's happening._

Sansa pulls out her phone, not even bothering to resist anymore. She scrolls until she gets to mtyrell. Margaery has her feet dangling over the edge of an iron balcony, laughing. Her expression is open wide, her dark eyes gleaming with joy. Sansa sits bolt upright.

She's wearing Renly's coat.

Sansa feels abruptly as though two worlds are colliding. She can't stop staring at Margaery, this woman who has been unknowingly inspiring her, wearing the coat that Sansa had made with her own two hands. It's like she's touching Margaery from halfway across the country, and she feels warmer than any swig of vodka could make her.

Sansa lets her head fall into her hands and sits there for a long time, the snow gathering in her hair.

* * *

Weeks go by. Sansa announces that Alayne Stone is going on a social media hiatus. She deletes Instagram from her phone and spends her days going back and forth between the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie. She's returned to a state of abundant productivity, thank the gods. She tries not to think too hard about the fact that the garments she's so busily working on were all inspired by Margaery. 

Sansa sits in a gondola car above the tree line. The heavy snow falls clumsily from branch to branch as the sun heats it. Spring has begun, and Sansa mourns the frozen beauty even as she welcomes the warmth. 

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It's Harry Hardyng, wondering if she can make an appearance at an uncle's fiftieth birthday with him. Harry is a good enough guy, and has his own secrets to keep, but he's no Renly. Sansa gives him a noncommital response and resumes staring out the window.

The end of term is coming. The end of her degree. Her parents would love to see her home, especially with Arya taking off to Essos soon. She thinks about Winterfell, colder than the Vale but nowhere near as remote. Satin has floated the idea of King's Landing at her, where there are more than enough clients for her kind of couture. But Sansa has been putting them all off. There's just been _here,_ and _now_ , for so long. 

She gets off at the Eyrie and hesitates at the door to the Crescent Chamber. She turns instead and makes her way back outside. 

Sansa follows the well-trod path of the ski patrol away from the gondola station until she reaches the rough pillar that marks the entrance to the godswood. There's no trail, no other indication of where to go, but Sansa knows the way in her bones. She ducks under the heavy boughs of the trees and trails her hand along their rough bark. The melting snow gives way under her feet, whispering with each step. 

She emerges into a clearing. The trees have been cut away, and centuries-old stumps form a half-circle around the perimeter. There is no heart tree; no weirwood will take root in the stony soil, despite the efforts of many generations. But a small waterfall trickles down a rock face and into a clear pool, and the fir trees stand sentinal, and it's enough. 

Sansa breathes in the spring air, heavy with moisture, and kneels at the pool to drink. The water is so cold she can feel it all the way down her throat into her stomach. She still remembers the first time she drank it, the feeling of absolute clarity, the sharp focus of that one sense in the still silence. 

Now she can feel the mountains all around her coming out of hibernation. The air is rich with the smell of damp earth, the quiet of winter broken by the trickle of meltwater. The natural ebb and flow of the seasons calms something in Sansa that has been in turmoil for months.

It's past lunch when Sansa finally finds her way to her studio, warm enough that she can leave the balcony doors open, and she lets the blinding sunlight reflected off the snow fill her workspace. The sun is never so bright and cold as it is in the mountains.

Sansa turns to sit at her desk. She's working on an asymmetrical white dress. The colour is plain, but upon closer inspection the whole thing is embroidered with flowers, white on white. Fine lacework finishes the hem and collar. Sansa has been working on it almost without thinking, without conscious intention. But as she enters the final stages, she realizes what she hasn't quite grasped until now: the dress is for _herself._

It's a garment meant to be looked at closely, not just in close-ups on Instagram, but on the body - the way it drapes, the way the hem plays over her thighs as she moves. And it's a garment, above all, meant to be _touched,_ the texture of the embroidery felt between the fingers, the transition from linen to lace marked underneath someone else's palms. 

_Huh._

Her phone rings, the sound jarring in the heavy silence of the tower. It's Robb. 

"Hey, Sans. How's life in the middle of nowhere?"

"How's life hiding from the press?" Sansa counters.

Robb groans. "I feel like I'm being stalked wherever I go. I've started driving to work just so that I can use the secure parkade. Then I can go from City Hall to home without ever having to step outside."

"Sounds idyllic."

"It's a pain. But things will settle down. And," she can hear Robb's smile at the other end of the line, "it's worth it, you know? To have Theon. And to just... have it out there in the open. To be able to live a whole life instead of half of one."

Sansa leans on the door to the balcony, staring out at Alyssa's Tears. The waterfall has started to thaw, barely, and she can hear the water rushing down the Giant's Lance from where she stands. 

"What about you? You graduate in a month, and you haven't set any plans in stone. Mum probably hasn't said anything to you, but she's getting a bit worried. Where will you go when you leave the Vale?"

Sansa runs her hand along the fabric of the dress, traces the outline of a rose with her thumb.

"I'm thinking about Oldtown."


	3. Chapter 3

Margaery revels in the sun at her back as she strolls home from breakfast with Sam and Alleras. It's still morning, and the heat hasn't become stifling yet. She says goodbye to her friends as they head across the river and keeps on to the old guildhalls. The creeping vines she's trained to climb down from the second floor and across the railing to the front steps are warm to the touch as she trots up to the door. 

"I'm home! And I brought coffees from Battle Isle, so I await your undying gratitude."

Margaery trails off as she takes in the sight before her. Loras is there, alone, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. His eyes are red-rimmed.

_Oh, no._

"He left," Loras chokes out. "I don't know if he's coming back."

Margaery collapses into the chair next to Loras and rubs his back in slow circles. "Oh, Loras."

Loras slides a newspaper across the table at her. It's a tabloid opened to the fifth page, where a photo of Loras and Nymeria kissing in the booth at a restaurant has central focus. Margaery closes her eyes and sighs.

"It was Cersei's idea," Loras says miserably. _Ugh. The demon publicist from hell._ "People have been... speculating after Nymeria was photographed with Asha Greyjoy at the Dornish Open. So we wanted something a bit more definitive."

"Did you discuss this with Renly beforehand?"

"Of course! I can't say he was happy about it, but we did talk. But I guess seeing it was just... something different."

Margaery takes a coffee out of the tray and takes a long sip. "I feel like perhaps... this was the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were."

Loras meets her eyes for the first time. He looks more haggard than she's ever seen him.

"That's true, isn't it? This hasn't quite been the happy, domestic life I envisioned when I suggested we all live together."

"You can't always have your cake and eat it, too, Loras," Margaery says, not without sympathy.

They're silent for a while. Margaery sends a text off to Renly to check up on him.

"Jon Connington just came out," Loras says suddenly. "He retired last year, but he told the press that he's been living with his partner, Myles Toyne, for twenty years. They're getting married in the autumn." Loras swallows. "He said that his biggest regret was not coming out sooner."

Margaery stares out the french doors to the garden, at the profusion of flowers blooming recklessly. _What have I been doing?_

"How do you want to live your life, Loras?" She asks gently.

Loras sits up. "Not like this. And I don't want you and Renly to live like this either." He gets up and starts pulling his shoes on. "Do you think he'll be at the Quill?"

Margaery checks her phone. "He's there. Here." She passes him the remaining coffees. "Take him this to show your good faith."

Margaery steps out into the garden when he's gone. 

_Gods. What now?_

* * *

Sansa stretches out in the back of the car her father hired for her, appreciating the leg room. The nearest airport is in Gulltown, so it's a bit of a drive before she boards a plane for Winterfell. The thick trees by the road down from the mountains have given way to wide expanses of land on either side of the highway.

_I'm not staying,_ she had said to her mother carefully. But a couple of weeks with family will do her good. _And Robb's already called in a favour - although this particular favour isn't one I mind doing._

Sansa pulls out her phone and dials Renly. 

"Hey, Sans. Perfect timing. I was going to call you today. We're just in the car on the way to Highgarden."

"Renly. Gods. I have an _emergency._ " 

"Is it a _real_ emergency, or are you just being a dramatic bitch?"

Sansa smiles. _He's in a good mood._

_It's still an emergency though._

"I'm going to ignore that. Listen, I'm to go to Humfrey Hightower's engagement party - to a _man_ , no less - at the end of the month. My father can't make it, and Robb is still laying low. But I find myself in need of a date - and a place to stay, obviously, but I just assumed I'd stay with you, so the date's the real problem. Harry decided that _now_ was the best time to tell his father that he's in love with a caterer's assistant, and he and Saffron have eloped to Essos. I know you'll be going with Margaery, but what's your Loras doing?"

There's raucous laughter on the other end of the line. _How many people are in that godsdamned car anyway?_ Sansa taps her nails on her suitcase in annoyance.

_"What?"_

"That's what I was going to call you about," Renly says. "Loras is actually going to the party with _me_."

Sansa stops breathing for a moment. "Renly. That's amazing." 

"It is pretty amazing. But I suppose it means you still have a problem."

"Aren't they just a couple of bastards, Sansa?" Margaery says. "They've left _me_ high and dry as well. Doesn't matter if I yell from the top of the godsdamned tower that I'm a lesbian, I'll still have every rich wank's son south of the Crownlands sniffing after me."

Sansas's heart almost stops at hearing Margaery's voice for the first time in months, and the second time ever. It's as melodic as she remembers.

"Sans? You there?"

"Yeah, sorry. Yeah. I'm here. Well, fuck. First Harry, now you three. Did no one realize that deciding to live their lives as their authentic selves really fucks with _my_ plans?"

More laughter. Sansa looks over her shoulder. The Vale is steadily receding behind her, its peaks fading beyond the horizon. Sansa thinks about mtyrell's Instagram, thinks about the white dress. She takes a deep breath.

"Well, in that case, Margaery - would _you_ like to be my date?"

There's silence for a moment, and Sansa feels like she wants to get out of the car and let it run her over.

"I - yes. That would be lovely. Very lovely. Should I - do you have a colour you're planning on wearing? So we can coordinate?"

Sansa already has her sketchbook out. 

"Let me worry about that. If you don't mind, of course."

"Of course not! I just couldn't impose that on you -"

Sansa laughs. "This is what I do, Margaery. It would please me very much to make you something to wear." 

Sansa remembers how it had felt to see Margaery wearing something she'd made and shivers.

_You have no idea how much._

* * *

Margaery takes the long way home from the shelter, meandering through the Thieves' Market instead of cutting over to the Honeywine. She gets a tray of iced coffees, telling herself that she just wants to be hospitable, that she's not delaying her arrival. 

Because Sansa is already at her house, and now that she's about to be face-to-face with the other woman, she has no idea what to do.

The build-up to their meeting feels too full of meaning for Margaery to be able to play it cool. Sansa doesn't know how much she's been on Margaery's mind, how much her art has sustained Margaery and given her hope through the last months of her miserable arrangement with Renly. 

She's at the door of their walk-up far too quickly. She takes a deep breath and goes inside.

"Hello?"

"Hi! Just a moment."

Margaery hears the door shutting from down the hall, and then she's _there._

Sansa Stark.

_She's tall,_ is Margaery's first thought. And her hair, glimpsed briefly on Renly's phone, is a richer auburn than a photo could do justice. She's dressed casually in shorts and a navy blouse that catches the blue in her eyes. And she looks just as stunned as Margaery does. 

"Hi," Margaery says, voice rough to her own ears. 

"Hi." Sansa walks a couple steps toward Margaery, extends her hand. "I'm Sansa."

Sansa's hand is cool in hers. "Margaery. It's, um, nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Same," Sansa says, smiling. "Um, Renly went to pick Loras up at the airport about an hour ago." The tension is stifling, and Margaery can't stand it. 

"This is -"

"I'm really - "

They laugh awkwardly. "You first," Sansa says.

"I've just been following your amazing work since we spoke on the phone, and it's a bit surreal to meet you in person. Oh! Are those some of your clothes?"

There are several garment bags thrown over the kitchen chairs. Sansa grabs one. "Yes! Actually, perfect timing. You should try this on so I know whether I have to make any adjustments."

Margaery leads the way up the staircase to her bedroom. "The guildhalls were chopped up into houses about a hundred years ago. So they're laid out a bit weird. The master bedroom has the whole second floor. I demanded it when I agreed to be Renly's faux-girlfriend."

Sansa laughs. "It's gorgeous, though," she says, running her hand along the exposed brick. "There's so much history, but it's not... I mean, it doesn't feel heavy."

Margaery tilts her head. "I think I know what you mean. There's a kind of... lack of pretentiousness to Oldtown."

"That's exactly it," Sansa says, smiling. It feels like the sun.

Margaery steps aside to let Sansa in, and having the other woman here, in her private space, is strange and wonderful and overwhelming. She watches Sansa wander around the room, admiring her long legs and graceful steps, and the look of open interest on her face. There's an old fresco on the ceiling depicting scenes of the Maiden from the Seven-Pointed Star, which Margaery has always considered ironic. It's furnished with a mish-mosh of antique furniture that had been gathering dust in Highgarden. Her bedspread is a green and gold quilt that her mother had made for her when she moved out for the first time. Sansa runs her hand over it and Margaery bites her lip. _Gods._

"I love this," Sansa says. "Your whole style."

Margaery looks around. She hasn't honestly really thought about her style in a long time. But at one point she had, arranging her parents' old furniture with an artful carelessness. It feels like a long time since she's actually looked at it. Sansa hands her the dress.

"Here - put this on and then I'll see what needs to be done."

Sansa doesn't leave the room, just turns her back, and disrobing mere feet away from her feels inexpressibly intimate. Margaery strips down to her underwear and unzips the garment bag.

"Oh my gods. This is beautiful."

The dress is metallic, with a loose top and a neckline that plunges to the waist. Margaery slips it over her head, the fabric sliding across her skin like water. Sansa turns around, looking her up and down. Her eyes are intense but unreadable.

"Mmm. You sent me pretty accurate measurements." Sansa moves to stand behind her, and Margaery swallows. "We just need to take it in a little bit back here." Sansa plucks at the fabric between Margaery's shoulderblades with deft fingers as she slides pins in. Margaery catches a gasp in her throat as Sansa moves her hair over her shoulder, fingers brushing against the back of her neck. "Lovely," Sansa says, not quite breathing the word into Margaery's ear. 

Margaery's phone dings, breaking the tension. She draws a shaky breath and reads the text from Renly. 

"Loras's flight has been delayed. Renly's just going to hang out at the airport instead of coming all the way back."

"I guess it's just you and me, then," Sansa says. "What do you say? Are you up for showing me around Oldtown?"

"I'd love to," Margaery says, and watches Sansa's face light up. She starts removing the dress, and Sansa's barely contained squeak as she whips around to face the other way is most gratifying. 

_Maybe not such an ice queen after all._

They set out along the Honeywine, and Margaery can't help but smile at the way Sansa is drinking everything in. They pass a footbridge near the Citadel and Sansa gasps.

"Oh! From your photo," she says, pulling Margaery along to the sidewalk. Her hand is warm on Margaery's arm and gone much too quickly. She registers Margaery's confusion and blushes under her gaze. "Um, on Instagram. When you were sitting on a curb drinking a coffee."

"Right, of course," Margaery says. The realization that she's existed for Sansa these past few months knocks her off balance for a moment. "This is the bridge that all the food carts take to the Citadel every day before lunch. So a lot of students camp out here so they can get a coffee from Battle Isle before they run out."

Sansa hums thoughtfully. She squints and points across the bridge. "And is that where you took that beautiful photo of the Honeywine? On the patio of that cafe?"

"It is," Margaery says. "It's one of my favourite study spots. I don't know how long you're planning on sticking around - we could go there one day if you want."

Sansa doesn't answer, too absorbed in hanging over the guardrail to stare at the clear river water. Margaery stands beside her and tries to see through her eyes. _It really is beautiful._ Even from here, she can see clear through to the bottom, at least in the shallows. 

"There are mountain streams as clear as this in the Vale," Sansa says thoughtfully, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "But the quality of this light is just... really something else."

They stand there staring for a few minutes in companionable silence, before Sansa sighs contentedly and starts down the road again. "Where to?"

"I thought we might go to the Quill and Tankard," Margaery ventures. "It's not fancy or anything, but it's classic Oldtown."

They make their way across the old plank bridge to the pub and find a table outside. Sansa finally stops looking around, and her eyes fall on Margaery.

"What's your favourite part about living here? You obviously love this city - your Instagram is like a love letter to Oldtown. It's... inspring."

_A love letter? I suppose it is._ Margaery hasn't felt truly enchanted by the city in ages, her frustration with being stuck in a fauxlationship bleeding into her feelings about her home. _But I_ do _love it here._

"It's... I love how much history there is. This city is older than King's Landing. But - it's like you said earlier. There's this lack of pretentiousness that's so refreshing, and so welcoming. Like, the shelter I volunteer at is in the old septry. The building gets featured in _architectural journals_ for godssakes. But there they are, a bunch of rowdy teenagers making it their home." Sansa is staring at her avidly, and Margaery starts to warm up to her subject. Talking about it again, and seeing it through Sansa's eyes - seeing it _with_ Sansa - makes it feel rich and new all over again, instead of the painful reminder of her own loneliness that it's become. 

"And there's just always something new to discover. I feel like I know these streets like the back of my hand, but then I turn a corner sometimes and there's a shop or a cafe that I've never noticed before. Like that one that Sam and I discovered recently by the Hightower!"

"I know - I made a dress inspired by that cafe," Sansa muses.

"I - a dress?"

Sansa blushes a deep crimson. "I saw your photo. And I loved the blue dishware. So I designed a dress that made me think of it. Um, here." Sansa pulls out her phone. "Satin hasn't worn it yet, so I haven't posted it, but you can see it here." The dress is magnificent. Margaery can't stop her smile.

"You made this based on... a photo of some china I posted?"

Sansa nods, almost shy. "Your Instagram has... been the muse for a lot of my work lately. And you, too. You just seem so... passionate, and full of life. I've been unhappy, and uninspired. And then after that phone call, when you followed me - I just had this window into Oldtown, and into your life, and... I'm sorry," Sansa shakes her head. "This is... weirdly intense. We've only just met."

Margaery reaches for Sansa's hand across the table, her heart beating in her throat. "I think it's just the right amount of intense." She digs in her pocket with her free hand and pulls out a dog-eared slip of paper. Sansa takes it with careful fingers.

_Happy birthday, Ren. Remember that now is not forever._

* * *

Sansa stares down at note, then back up at Margaery. The other woman is watching her tentatively.

_She was wearing the jacket,_ Sansa remembers hazily, as though she hasn't thought about it every day since she saw the photo. She had been lured to Oldtown by Margaery, and nothing has disappointed - not the city, not the woman herself. Everything is - sound and presence and warmth, Margaery the warmest of all. Sansa is enchanted by the play of light across Margaery's rich hair, her dark eyes pulling Sansa in. It's overstimulating in the best way, and to know that Margaery has been feeling this connection too, across hundreds of miles...

"I've been going through the motions of my own life, living half a lie. And your work, it's so authentic and intelligent. It made me feel... understood. And seen. And like there was hope for me to feel, I don't know, companionship." Margaery's face is fearful and vulnerable, and watching her be brave in this moment is mesmerizing. 

Sansa downs the rest of her drink and throws a few dragons on the table. "Let's go."

Margaery looks startled, but stands. "What?"

Sanas smiles. "Show me your city. I want to get to know you."

They start walking, and it becomes clear to Sansa that she _does_ know Margaery, to an extent. They enter the Citadel, where a few students coming out of late seminars are trickling out. Sansa pauses to marvel at the green sphinxes that flank the entryway. "You're not supposed to touch them or climb them," Margaery explains.

"You have, though," Sansa says, smirking. She recalls a photo of an obviously drunk Margaery perched on the female sphinx, and remembers too late that the picture is an old one, from long before Sansa started following her. _She'll know me for the insta-stalker I am._ It doesn't make her feel as nervous as it might have. Sansa gets the feeling that they're beyond such worries.

Margaery grins in return, putting a hand on Sansa's arm. The touch feels like a brand on her skin. "It was after the first week of school. I'm surprised the photo is as good as it is. Sam took it, and he was watching for security and begging me to get down the whole time."

Sansa laughs. "Renly made me take a photo of him in a sky cell once. They're strictly off-limits, obviously. He posed very heroicly, then crawled back to the door on his belly."

They cross the weathered wooden drawbridge to the Ravenry, and Sansa is immediately drawn to the weirwood in the yard. Ravens perch on it, sqauwking hoarsely, but Sansa approaches anyway. She lays her hand on the bone-white bark. The godswood in the Vale had been lovely, so Sansa is unprepared for how joyful seeing a weirwood outside of Winterfell makes her. She puts a hand on her chest, as though to contain her brimming heart.

"You're beautiful."

Margaery stands at the entrance to the yard, one hand on the moss-covered wall. Her eyes are watchful, her expression a little bit helpless. Sansa steps closer and runs her fingertips down Margaery's arm from shoulder to wrist, then takes her hand. "Lead on."

Sansa watches Margaery as the other woman leads them across the Honeywine to the Scribe's Hearth. As interested as Sansa is in the history of Oldtown, she loses track of Margaery's anecdote about the statue of Daeron Targaryen, looking instead at her animated face, at the bow of her lips, at the sheen of sweat on her collarbones. Sansa has felt desire before, but not like this. Here, in the dying light, amid the air thick with the fragrance of melons and moonblooms, Margaery seems like precious earthly delight that has heretofore been forbidden her. Margaery is so _tangible_ , so real. More compelling and tempting than the half-formed fantasy that Sansa had imagined in the isolation of the Maiden's Tower.

They walk back in the direction they came. Sansa closes her eyes and lets Margaery pull her along, listening to the sounds of the city - buskers on every corner, their disparate melodies overlapping and blending into each other in a joyful cacophony; the sounds of drunken revelry spilling out of the various pubs and taverns; the call to prayer from the Starry Sept ringing out clear through the night... before Sansa knows it, they're back at the house. She follows Margaery inside and leans against the wall of the entryway watching Margaery fiddle nervously with her keys and phone. 

"Renly says Loras's flight just landed, so they'll be on their way soon. It takes about an hour to get home from the airport, though, so they'll still be - "

"Margaery."

Sansa crosses the distance between them and rubs the hem of Margaery's shirt between her fingers. The other woman stares at her, dark eyes wide. 

"I think I'd like to look at that fresco in your bedroom again."

The clear invitation seems to reawaken Margaery's confidence, because no sooner do they step into her bedroom than she has Sansa pressed into the door, one thumb under Sansa's jaw, the other tracing her bottom lip. Sansa gasps, head swimming. She hasn't been touched like this since... well, since ever. Margaery's room smells like lilacs, her breath sweet like apple cider, and Sansa is so very tired of keeping herself hidden away in her mind.

She tangles her hands in Margaery's hair and kisses her. Margaery moans low in her throat and pulls Sansa impossibly closer with a hand on the back of her neck. It's heady and wonderful and Sansa has never felt more alive. 

Sansa has somehow maneuvered Margaery onto the bed when she tells her, straddling the other woman and looking down at her swollen lips, her mussed hair, her dark eyes filled with want. Sansa has seen her a hundred times in pictures by now, but nothing compares to seeing her here, in the flesh, lit only by the dappled light of the streetlamp outside the window.

"I came here for you, you know."

Margaery's hands pause at the waistband of Sansa's shorts, and her smile is like honey, like home.

"I know."

* * *

Margaery grabs a two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and hands one to Sansa. She spots Sam across the room with Gilly and tips her glass at him. The ballroom of the Hightower is packed with people, and Margaery entertains Sansa by telling her about the more colourful personalities.

"That's Orton Merryweather. My dad told me that he once streaked all around the Starry Sept on a dare when he was studying at the Citadel. Pity they didn't have camera phones back then." Sansa giggles and leans into her. "And there's my friend Sam's dad, Randyll Tarly. The historical reenactor slash amateur taxidermist. I don't have any specific dirt on him, but I feel like those details are enough." 

Renly and Loras join them from the bar, whiskey on the rocks in hand. Loras follows Margaery's gaze to Androw Ashford. " _That_ piece of work over there is training as a septon - but I happen to know from... _personal_ experience that he's not quite as opposed to homosexual behaviour as the Seven-Pointed Star would have him be."

Renly gives Loras a haughty look, and Loras responds by kissing him on the cheek. "All in the past, my love."

Mollified, Renly turns to his erstwhile girlfriend. "So, Sansa - what do you think of Oldtown? I understand you had quite the tour last night."

Sansa flushes at Renly's gentle ribbing, but leans into Margaery's side. Margaery kisses her shoulder and puts a hand on the small of her back, the lace delicate under her fingers. Sansa smiles down at Margaery.

"I think I'm going to stick around."

**Author's Note:**

> I'd be remiss not to mention that almost every garment referenced here is either inspired or outright ripped off from various looks from RuPaul's Drag Race. Thanks for reading, folks! I'll update with links to specific looks next week.


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